


True Winter

by silent_scythe_47



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Gen, i still dont know how to tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:42:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27827716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silent_scythe_47/pseuds/silent_scythe_47
Summary: It's wintertime in Illyria, and Cassian is just a child.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	True Winter

**Author's Note:**

> Hi y'all! I started writing this during class and it’s not really edited, so my apologies for all the tense changes and any grammatical or spelling errors. This is also posted on Tumblr- find me there @silent-scythe!
> 
> Mild cursing in the story.

When people think of snow, they often think of wonderland. They imagine the tall, powerful pine trees with snow piled on top, little flecks of dark green representing the branches that peeked through. They imagine the icicles that dangle from the roofs of bungalows and townhouses. They imagine powdery snowflakes and snowball fights. They imagine a world turned to bliss, playful by day and serene at night. They imagine the coziness of winter, snuggled in their warm homes with warm drinks and warm clothes and warm hearts. 

But what happens when they don’t get that privilege? When they instead, have to live outside, cold, shuddering at the freezing temperatures, fingers frozen, stomachs twisting in hunger? 

There is a little boy. 

He’s not a little boy now. No, he is a courageous, compassionate and loving male with a family and friends. But before that, he was just a bastard-born boy with hopes shattered like ice in the frigid grasp of death. And he tells the story of true winter.

  


༺༻

  


Winter comes again, but it’s different. 

It is harsh, the snow. 

Cassian doesn’t like it. Hates it, even. Past winters had been spent with his mother, in front of a crackling fire pit, not alone in a camp full of people who hate him. He flinches at that thought, remembering all too clearly the last insult hurled at his face. 

He hasn’t experienced an Illyrian winter yet, at least not one by himself, alone, tossed outside like a rag, left to become dust in the wind. 

He trudges through the snow that has already reached his calves, his worn leather boots near tattered. He can feel the cold seep through the fabric, settling deep into his bones. 

_I need a new pair of shoes,_ he realizes. _And food, water, maybe a blanket or warmer clothes._

He is but a boy right now, short and somewhat clumsy, although still more lithe than the average Illyrian, having spent his entire life fighting to live. His hazel eyes are round, with the type of innocence that seems both naive and old beyond his years. His hair is wild, tangled, and already down to his shoulders- he can’t remember the last time he got a haircut. 

He doesn’t want to. Haircuts remind him of a different time. A time with warmth and cozy beds and delicious food and love. A time with his mother. 

Cassian banishes the thought away, instead focusing on his task. _Food, shoes, and something warm._

He shakes his wings, the light snow that dusted them falling off with the action. He clenches his small hands into fists, trying to keep warm, since he doesn’t have any gloves, either. 

Cassian walks into the main parts of Windhaven, and the bloodied, crimson and gold sun rises. 

A new day starts. 

  


༺༻

  


Night is falling by the time he reaches his tent, which is on the outskirts of the camp, close to the forest. Cassian had heard tales before, tales of the creatures who prowled and hunted at night. He shudders at the thought. 

He calls his home a tent, but it really isn’t. It is made with fabric- the material that the tents were made from- that he took from someone after beating them in a fight. He had found a tall pine tree to mark his home. Then, he had dragged bricks, mud, and rocks from around camp to his makeshift house, building a single wall besides the tree, then he had draped the tent-fabric diagonally from it, securing it to the ground with nails that he found. It is lopsided, falling apart, and beyond dirty, but it will have to make do, at least for now. 

It is small and Cassian doesn’t mind, for he doesn’t have much with him. He is a bastard after all, thrown here into the mud with nothing, the tears on his face not yet dried. He has a small storage of food in one corner that he saves for the worst blizzards, the one he hears about from the adult Illyrians, the ones he knows are coming soon, and a change of clothes in the other corner. A bed is in the center, although it really isn’t a bed- just furs that lined the cold, hard ground, giving him something to help keep him warm during the dead of night. 

Cassian sighs and wonders if he will ever be able to sleep in a real bed one day. “It’s unfair,” he yells into his shabby home. “It’s unfair that I’m just a little boy, yet I have to go through all of this shit!” 

He is answered only by the howling winds. 

_Shit_ is a new word he learned a few days ago. Cassian doesn’t know if he used it correctly, but he doesn’t care. 

In his left hand is a big piece of fur. He thinks it's fur from the deer that reside nearby, although he doesn’t know. He is lucky to get his hands on it- a female Illyrian had given it to him, her face softened in sorrow. In Cassian’s right hand is a makeshift bag, which is really a square cloth that he uses to hold the food he manages to get everyday. Today, he has a decently-sized piece of jerky and something that probably used to be bread. 

“It’s food,” he says firmly, to himself. “I don’t care what it looks like, it’s food.” 

He adds the fur to his bed and sits atop it. He puts the bread to one side and breaks the jerky, taking a smaller piece and putting the rest in his little pile of stocked-up food, saving it for later. Just in case. 

There is a bowl next to him, with water inside that he collects every morning from dew-ridden moss and any clean puddles he can find, and if he has time, he goes to the pond to collect fresh water there. He takes a gulp of it and starts eating. 

Cassian finishes the food far faster than he wants to. His stomach is still making knots, still unfilled, but he pretends not to notice. 

Instead, he shuffles to the side, towards the short wall he made a year ago, the wall of bricks and stone that would probably fall if you kicked it too hard. He finds the little nook in between two rocks, and he pulls out a small black box. 

In the box is a golden necklace with a ruby attached to it. It is probably the only clean thing he has in his possession. He dares not touch the jewel, for fear he might dirty it. 

Cassian holds it close to his chest. 

“Hi mom,” he whispers. 

“I miss you. The other boys will laugh at me if they knew I talked to a necklace, but you’re the only friend I have. It’s cold here, and I’m starving,” he complains. 

“I wish you would find me already. I know they held you back and they took me here, and I know it’s already been a year, but I believe in you. I know you’ll find me, and you’ll give me a warm hug and a kiss. 

“Please find me, please. I miss you so much, mama. I hope you miss me too. They don’t like me here. The boys spit on me and bully me, but I have to endure it, since I need to survive. Endure is a new word I learned today. Devlon told me to endure. Well actually, he told me to endure or else I would get killed.” 

Cassian’s eyes are teary. “I miss you, mama. I love you.” 

Then Cassian closes the box and he goes to sleep.

  


༺༻

  


Two weeks pass, and the brutality of true winter sets in. It’s worse than what Cassian imagined. 

There are less and less boys he can fight with and take food from. His stockpile of food is down to nearly nothing, and the latest blizzard made it near impossible for him to get out of his tent, which has surprisingly managed to stay up despite the heavy snow. 

Cassian is shivering, and he hasn’t eaten in days, not willing to waste his food. 

He doesn’t know if he can make it through winter, especially considering it has only just started. He tries to remember a face. He tries so hard to conjure a face with fiery hazel eyes, long, wavy black hair, and soft lips, but his mother’s face becomes blurrier every day. 

The boy is losing hope.

  


༺༻

  


More days pass, and the boy grows thinner, eyes duller. 

The boy lost any semblance of hope. 

He no longer talks to the box. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed reading! I'd love to hear your comments and opinions, they mean the world to me. 
> 
> Thank you,  
> Scythe


End file.
